


Young and Menace

by justasock_x



Series: M A N I A by Fall Out Boy [9]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom!Geralt, Bottom!Jaskier, Bruises, Dirty Talk, M/M, Marking, Protective!Geralt, Rimming, Top!Geralt, butchered mythology, top!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26718154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justasock_x/pseuds/justasock_x
Summary: And I lived so much life, lived so much life I think that God is gonna have to kill me twice.Geralt and Jaskier try something new and find a curiously wounded creature.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: M A N I A by Fall Out Boy [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894084
Kudos: 69





	Young and Menace

**Author's Note:**

> Fics in this series are oneshots loosely based on the songs from the album M A N I A, by Fall Out Boy. Not beta-read, all mistakes are my own. Fandom knowledge comes exclusively from the TV series, other fics, and cursory Googling.

“How does it feel?” the Witcher murmured, voice rough and low in the candle-lit room they had rented. Geralt’s golden eyes were focused intently on the reactions he was pulling from Jaskier with every firm press of his thick fingers inside of the bard’s hot, tight body, and the smaller man whimpered and arched his back at the words, pushing onto the fingers spreading him open carefully. 

“B-big,” Jaskier breathed. Geralt stared at the dip of the bard’s spine as he writhed sinuously, sweat giving his skin a light glow. The Witcher grinned and brought his mouth down to brush against the curve of Jaskier’s ass, biting gently at his skin and then soothing the tiny pricks of pain from his sharp canines with his tongue.

“I’m going to come if you keep doing that,” Jaskier whined as Geralt pressed his calloused fingertips against the bump of his prostate and rubbed firmly.

“Just from this?” he asked, surprised. His fingertips stopped moving inside Jaskier and the bard growled in frustration, shoving his hips back.

“ _Yes_ , you great oaf,” the bard snarled, “just like this, so please _keep moving_.”

Geralt snapped back to attention and began circling the bard’s prostate firmly, watching in awe as Jaskier fell apart beneath his hands. His spine dipped in an arch that looked almost dangerous and he groaned low and heartfelt as he came into the bedding underneath him while Geralt eased him through it. As the Witcher pulled his fingers free from the bard’s still-trembling body, Jaskier let out a quiet, content sigh and rolled onto his side, fixing Geralt with his dazed, soft gaze.

“Hi,” he murmured, tugging the Witcher up to him to bring their mouths together softly. “Mm. Give me a minute until I can feel my legs, and I’ll suck your soul out.” 

Geralt shifted uncomfortably, and Jaskier must’ve seen something in his face, because he sat up and shuffled forward on his knees to take Geralt’s hand. The Witcher stared down at their joined fingers for a moment, considering the elegant and gentle ways the bard touched his lute, braided the horses’ manes, tipped Geralt’s head down for a kiss. He frowned. 

“What is it?” Jaskier pressed, bringing one hand up to cup Geralt’s chin and meet the Witcher’s gaze steadily, concern evident in his blue eyes. _Blue like the sea_ , Geralt thought, and brought their mouths together to buy himself time to formulate his thoughts. Jaskier kissed him back, slow and careful like he wasn’t sure what Geralt was doing.

“I want to try it,” the bigger man finally admitted against the bard’s mouth, and Jaskier made a questioning noise, pulling away slightly.

“Try what?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. There was no judgment in his gaze, only curiosity, but Geralt still felt the desire to flush under the scrutiny.

“The, uh, touching. Like I do to you,” Geralt said, fumbling for the right words. “You like it when I...when I fuck you. When I’m inside of you.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said slowly, furrowing his brow. “I’m not unhappy with that arrangement.”

“I know,” Geralt answered impatiently, frustrated. 

“You want to try it though?” The smaller man’s voice was quiet and neutral, and Geralt couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. He simply hummed in response, but Jaskier seemed to accept that as an answer because he brought their mouths together in a more purposeful kiss, moving to straddle Geralt’s lap. The Witcher’s hands went immediately to the smaller man’s waist, holding him steady as they kissed and Jaskier rocked in his lap, bringing his own sated cock slowly back to hardness and reinvigorating Geralt’s, which had started to soften under the awkwardness of communicating something so vulnerable.

Geralt could feel himself getting lost in touching and kissing Jaskier, the wolf in him growing hungry to consume what the bard offered so willingly, but that wasn’t what this was about. He slowly let himself back off, teasing at the bard’s mouth until he grew frustrated and took control. The smaller man’s tongue swept forward, pushing insistently against Geralt’s own, and he let it in as they kissed lazily, the transfer of power leaving Geralt feeling unsteady but not uncomfortable. Jaskier seemed to regain his equilibrium as Geralt felt his own take its leave, and the bard carefully maneuvered them until Geralt was laying on his back with Jaskier settled comfortably in his lap, a grin quirking his lips as he stared down at the Witcher with lust-filled eyes.

“Tell me if you don’t like anything,” he finally said earnestly, and Geralt grunted an affirmative.

Soothed by the Witcher’s agreement, Jaskier slowly began trailing kisses down his throat. Geralt hummed at the pleasant sensation and focused on relaxing his muscles, letting the tension bleed from him until he was loose-limbed and pliant. 

“Gorgeous,” Jaskier murmured reverently, delighted at how still and calm the Witcher was beneath him. Geralt only blinked at him slowly, golden eyes hazy with the simple pleasure of being cared for so tenderly. It was strange - his limbs felt heavy and lax, and his mind was pleasantly clouded with only Jaskier. His senses were honed in on the flighty bard in his lap and edging downward - the sight of his genuine affections, the smell of his arousal mixing with his natural scent, the feel of his soft lips and calloused fingers weaving trails of burning pleasure down Geralt’s scarred flesh. 

Jaskier settled comfortably between Geralt’s thighs, and this position was familiar enough that one of the Witcher’s big hands immediately moved to grasp Jaskier’s hair. The bard’s own hand darted out and his fingers wrapped tightly around Geralt’s wrist in midair, stopping his hand. He set it back down on the bed next to Geralt and patted it meaningfully. _Stay._ Looking back up to gauge the Witcher’s reaction, Jaskier smiled when Geralt only nodded his understanding. Geralt felt an unnamed warmth curl in his belly at seeing Jaskier’s obvious pleasure at his obedience, and he was curious enough to let the bard do as he wished.

What the bard wished, it seemed, was to torture Geralt, because he completely ignored the Witcher’s cock and instead began laving gentle licks and kisses to the sensitive skin of his balls. Geralt’s legs spread automatically and Jaskier took the invitation, pressing forward until his shoulders were wedged beneath Geralt’s thighs and keeping him spread open and vulnerable. Once the Witcher realized it, he went unnaturally still, the tension curling back into his body and causing Jaskier to pull back a fraction with a pinched brow.

“Too much?” he fretted. Geralt considered it for a moment before he shook his head.

“No,” he answered finally, allowing his rigid muscles to relax again. “No, it’s alright. I wasn’t expecting...the feeling of it.” The words were hard for him to reach, always slipping out of his clumsy, fumbling grasp, but he knew he had to try for his songbird, for whom words were like fine wine to drink down and savor. 

“Alright,” Jaskier said quietly, voice soft. He paused. “You’re quite sure?”

“Get on with it, bard, before I fall asleep,” the Witcher groused, but inside his chest was warm and tight from the bard’s obvious concern for his comfort. It calmed his own anxieties, that Jaskier was nervous too. This wasn’t just Geralt being vulnerable, this was Jaskier experiencing something new too, and that made it alright for Geralt to allow the smaller man to press up against him, shoulders under his thighs and spreading him open in the most intimate way. Instead of fear, Geralt felt pleasure as Jaskier continued licking and sucking at his balls, tongue occasionally dipping down to tease along the thin skin of his perineum. His thighs tensed at the first flick of Jaskier’s tongue against his hole, previously untouched by anyone else. His hole twitched and Jaskier let out a gasp. Geralt felt blood rushing to his face and instinctively tried to close his legs. 

“No, no,” Jaskier begged, voice hoarse, “please let me. Please.” He looked wrecked, Geralt realized, hair mussed and sweaty at the temples, storm-blue irises eclipsed by blown black pupils. His lips were red and wet and his eyes were focused intently on where he had Geralt spread open for him. 

“Alright,” Geralt agreed, surprised by how breathless he sounded. “Alright, Jaskier, okay.” He tipped his head back as Jaskier dove back between his legs, and the next press of the bard’s tongue was firmer, a long lick that ripped a growl out of Geralt’s throat before he could stop it. He forced himself to stop thinking and just let the feeling wash over him, and his hips began to rock slightly in counterpoint to Jaskier’s thrusting tongue. The feeling was filthy - Jaskier was dripping spit down along his crack, and his hole fluttered at the sweet assault, but the bard continued like he was starved for the taste of Geralt, and it caused the Witcher’s fraying control to snap. 

“Up here,” he growled, grabbing a fistful of Jaskier’s hair and pulling him bodily up the bed until their mouths could slot together. Jaskier moaned and Geralt forced his tongue deep, chasing the taste of himself on his bard. 

“I wanted to get my fingers into you,” Jaskier gasped when they parted for breath, cheeks flushed. “Feels so good,” he crooned. “You deserve it, darling, I-”

“Can’t wait,” Geralt interrupted, and he gave Jaskier no warning before he began to press up and into him. The smaller man whined, hips twitching at the feeling of the Witcher’s heavy girth sinking inside. Geralt was mindful of the lack of oil on his cock - he had prepared Jaskier thoroughly and knew the bard was ready for him, but the friction was a bit more than normal and by the time Geralt was pressed flush to his pert behind, Jaskier was panting, mouth parted and lush. 

“Oh fuck me,” Jaskier groaned after he adjusted, and Geralt did as he was bid, hips rocking up smoothly to bounce the bard on his cock. Jaskier was gorgeous all of the time, but Geralt liked him best like this - relaxed, happy, rocking on Geralt’s cock while the Witcher brought him pleasure.

“Tell me how it feels,” the bigger man requested suddenly, his fingers tight on Jaskier’s hips as they moved together. The bard whimpered.

“F-feels,” he gasped, cutting himself off with a cry when Geralt hit his prostate, “feels intense. Big. A little overwhelming in a, _fuck_ \- in a good way.” He bit down on Geralt’s shoulder as the Witcher kept hitting that spot inside of him, and Geralt growled, rolling them over in one smooth motion and hooking the bard’s legs over his muscled shoulders to bend him in half and fuck into him hard. The rhythm sent the headboard smacking against the wall and made Jaskier absolutely wail. Geralt groaned raggedly as he came, bruises blooming under the fingertips he had dug into Jaskier’s hips. The Witcher kept rocking through his orgasm, rubbing his thick cockhead insistently against the bard’s sensitive prostate and Jaskier’s fumbling fingers only tugged twice at his swollen cock before he spilled over his stomach with a shout. The strong spasms of his hole made Geralt groan and dip his head forward to press into the bard’s shoulder as he shuddered through the aftershocks, pressing them tight together.

“I would be gentle,” Jaskier said eventually, once they were clean and twined together in the bedding. 

“Hm?” 

“With you,” the bard clarified, a light pink dusting his cheeks but his eyes wide and earnest. “I wouldn’t hurt you. I’d make sure you knew how good it felt, to be so filled.” His tone was wistful. Geralt let his eyes close as he ran a hand down Jaskier’s smooth back and considered it.

“Maybe,” he allowed, after a beat of silence. He could feel the small smile that Jaskier pressed into his chest, but they spoke no more and soon the bard’s soft snoring lulled Geralt to sleep.

* * *

The summer was mild so far, and they were in Lyria where the nobility was offering a decent sum to rid them of a warg infestation by the fortresses on the Yaruga. The lord had let them stay at his summer cottage at the edge of town, and Jaskier had been delighted by the quaint space. It was closer to the infestation _and_ farther from the stink of the city, and so Geralt had been pleased in his own way as well. The bard was practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of getting into the waters of the big river that flowed from his home in the Great Sea, where Verden and Cintra reigned, but Geralt made him swear to stay in the cottage until the wargs had been dealt with. Jaskier had some of his magic now, but Geralt still refused to let him put himself into danger. That, it seemed, would never change.

Geralt dispatched the wargs that evening with little difficulty, and he returned to the cottage with the moon still high in the sky. Jaskier was awake, strumming his lute and singing softly to himself when the Witcher came into the one-room lodgings, setting his sword down to be cleaned later. 

“Well? All done with your Witchery business?” Jaskier asked, waggling his eyebrows with a grin.

“Hmm,” Geralt answered, unimpressed but fond. 

Jaskier smirked and went back to strumming his lute, and Geralt went to the wash basin and heated up the water Jaskier had brought in from the well outside for him to bathe in. His bath was perfunctory and there was a strange tension in the air. Once he’d dried himself and redressed, he took a comb and leather tie over to the bard and set them neatly next to his feet, which he’d kicked up onto the rough wooden table.

“Will you help me with my hair?” the Witcher asked, voice quiet. 

“Of course,” the bard answered, eyes soft.

Jaskier stood and set his lute aside, gesturing for Geralt to take his recently vacated seat. The Witcher did, turning it around so that he was facing the straight back and could fold his arms over it. The bard picked up his comb - one that Geralt had whittled himself out of the leg bone from a hunt - and methodically began to untangle the silvery strands. He hummed as he worked, and Geralt felt his eyes drooping lazily as the clever fingers in his hair twisted it into a simple Redanian braid.

“There,” Jaskier said, clicking his tongue and stepping back once it was tied off. “All done.” 

Geralt stood and turned to face the bard, taking his chin and bringing him into a sweet kiss. “Thank you,” he murmured against the plush lips, and Jaskier sighed into his mouth.

“Mm, you’re quite welcome,” the bard murmured. He paused and then, carefully, he asked, “Can you help me with something?”

“What do you need?” 

“Um, when we were in Cidaris, there was a book -”

“The Scripture you were reading,” Geralt remembered. He recalled the perplexed expression on the bard’s face when he’d caught him studying it.

“Yes,” Jaskier confirmed. “It was about Nereus. About, um. About my father.”

“What did it say?” Geralt asked, voice soft. This was the tension he had felt, and now it was to break.

“Nereus was the oldest son of Gaia and Pontus,” Jaskier said after a moment. “When you would go hunting, I’d sneak in to read the book. Nereus married Doris and had fifty daughters, the Nereids, and one son,” he gestured to himself, “Nerites.” 

Geralt hummed to show he was still listening, and Jaskier kept rambling.

“The gods feared that Nerites, or - well, that _I_ would enact revenge on Poseidon for overthrowing my father as god of the sea. Zeus declared my banishment, and it was done. And that’s the end of my story, except…” He trailed off, biting his lip.

“Except?” Geralt prodded gently.

“Except there was a way to summon Nereus in the book,” he admitted finally, eyes dropping to the floor.

“And you want to summon your father,” the Witcher realized. Jaskier nodded, still chewing his lip.

Geralt sighed. “How?” he asked eventually. Jaskier smiled.

“I don’t _really_ know,” he hedged, “but I think I can figure it out. He obviously liked the fey - they’re woven throughout my life. My stepmother, Filavandrel, my lute. I have a fairy charm that my mother gave to me when I was very young. Amphitrite gave me a pearl brooch that belongs to our mother, Doris. Sea water, maybe me singing the hardest I’ve ever sung?” He looked hopeful.

Geralt made a thoughtful noise. “I’ll talk to Yen via xenovox, see if she can give us any suggestions,” he offered, and the bard smiled.

“Thank you, Geralt. Really.”

He seemed to relax after that, and the pair retired to bed. Geralt couldn’t seem to relax, his mind racing and his body tense. Jaskier could feel the effects of Geralt’s restlessness, and he sighed in irritation, sitting up and shoving at the Witcher’s shoulder.

“What gives?” he complained. 

“Can’t sleep,” Geralt answered, pointing out the obvious. Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“No shit. Why not?” 

Geralt huffed out a breath and shrugged but didn’t answer. The only light in the room came from the moon shining in through the cottage, but Jaskier and Geralt both had eyesight good enough to see each other in the light - even if the Witcher’s would always be better. 

“You’re thinking about something,” the bard murmured, brow furrowed. “Do you need me to distract you?” His voice took on a teasing lilt, and Geralt’s stomach twisted pleasantly. He hummed, and Jaskier slid a leg over his hips to straddle his lap and lean down, bringing their mouths together in a clinging, wet kiss.

Jaskier knew when to stop pushing Geralt to open up about his thoughts and feelings, and the Witcher was pleased when instead of demanding to know, the bard just took the initiative to distract him instead. Geralt lost himself in the feeling of Jaskier in his lap, warm and aroused as their thickening cocks rubbed together, mouths meeting and parting as they lazily stoked their pleasure. 

“I want your fingers,” Geralt finally murmured against the bard’s lips, and Jaskier groaned and nipped his lower lip with sharp teeth. 

“Inside?” he asked, breathless. 

“Mm.”

“You have to say it,” he pleaded.

“Yes, Jaskier. I want your fingers inside of me,” the Witcher ground out, cheeks flushing uncharacteristically. Jaskier let out a soft noise of sympathy and pressed kisses to his cheeks and forehead, his nose and chin and eyelids and finally, his lips.

“It’s alright darling,” he cooed when he pulled back. “Let me get some oil, yeah?”

Geralt hummed and the bard untangled himself from the bedding to go to his pack, searching and letting out a quiet noise of triumph when he turned back to Geralt with a small bottle of oil in his hand. The Witcher spread his legs and Jaskier settled comfortably between them. For a time, the bard simply ran his elegant fingers up and down the insides of Geralt’s thighs, occasionally detouring to trace over a jagged scar. His eyes were huge and focused intently, and soon his hands started passing closer to where the bigger man was swollen and leaking against his abdomen. He took Geralt in one hand and gave him a few tugs, causing the Witcher to let out a quiet noise at the feeling of the precome slicking the motion. 

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” Jaskier promised, letting go of Geralt’s cock to grab the bottle of oil. He popped the cork and collected a sizable amount in the palm of his hand. The bottle was recorked and set back onto the bed, and Jaskier rubbed his hands together until they were slick and shining. He paused, considering, before he tapped Geralt’s thigh.

“It might be easier on your stomach for the first time,” he said regretfully. “As much as I’d love to see your face when we do this, I want you to enjoy it more.”

“I trust your judgment,” Geralt replied, voice rough even to his own ears. He let Jaskier help arrange him on his stomach with his hips in the air. He shifted, feeling extremely exposed as the bard pushed insistently at his thighs, nudging them farther apart until he was spread wide. 

“Oh,” Jaskier murmured dreamily, “you’re lovely. Just gorgeous.” His hands touched Geralt’s skin gently, slick and warm with oil as he began to rub the lightly scented liquid into the pale, muscled skin of Geralt’s ass. The Witcher tilted his hips into the pressure, pleased to feel the tendons and muscles in his thighs and hips easing from the impromptu massage. The bard hummed, delighted, and slid his hands inward. The fingernails of his left hand dug in slightly to the muscle of Geralt’s left cheek, spreading him even wider for the fingertips of his right hand to rub over the tight muscle of his hole. Geralt jerked and grunted at the feeling, but the bard didn’t do anything more, simply ran his wet fingertips in a line over and over the Witcher’s hole until it began to twitch at the sensation, his nerves coming alive at the feeling of being touched in such an intimate place.

“Please,” he finally ground out, pushing his hips back pointedly.

“Please what?” Jaskier teased, far too smug.

Geralt said nothing, and Jaskier clicked his tongue in disapproval. His fingers left and Geralt let out a quiet noise of distress at the loss. Soon, he felt the index finger of Jaskier’s hand pressing inside of him, parting him slightly, only up to the first knuckle. He groaned and wiggled, pushed back slightly, but Jaskier had anticipated his movement and his hand and body moved back in response. He slapped the Witcher’s ass lightly and Geralt hissed through his teeth.

“Please _what_?” Jaskier repeated firmly, twisting his finger slightly to tug at the rim of Geralt’s hole.

“Please fuck me,” the Witcher finally managed through gritted teeth. Jaskier smiled, and the scent of his lust spiked. The smell of him combined with the feeling of his forefinger finally sinking fully into his ass made Geralt groan and rock back, taking the slender digit to the hilt. Jaskier gasped aloud, finger twisting in the flexing hole. 

“Alright?” he murmured, leaning down to skim his lips down the ridges of Geralt’s vertebrae, pressing a kiss into the dip at the base of his spine.

“Mmm,” Geralt rumbled in agreement, and it was good that Jaskier knew him so well because he _couldn’t_ vocalize how it felt to be filled with the bard, even something so small as one thin finger. He imagined how much farther his body would need to stretch to accommodate Jaskier’s cock and murmured, “another,” with a rough voice.

Jaskier, thankfully, acquiesced, and soon Geralt was rocking back on two of the bard’s clever fingers, stretching apart inside of him on some thrusts while on others coming together to rub firmly over the bump of his prostate. Geralt didn’t have to ask for another finger, and soon the bard had three inside of him and the Witcher didn’t realize the nonsensical noises in the room were coming from him. 

“Are you ready for me, darling?” Jaskier crooned into his ear as he leaned up over Geralt’s back, draping himself along the bigger man and biting at his shoulder as his cock rubbed up against the Witcher’s ass. “Can I fuck you, Geralt?” His voice was ragged and lust-drunk, and Geralt huffed.

“Yes,” he snarled, pushing his hips back into the blunt pressure at his hole. The head of Jaskier’s cock sank into him and they both let out noises - Jaskier a thin whine, Geralt a low rumble. 

“You feel so good,” Jaskier moaned, hips rocking in little circles as he pressed in gently, cock spearing Geralt open a little at a time and sending his blood rushing in his ears. 

“Fuck me,” the Witcher snapped back, and Jaskier did. Geralt lost himself in the haze of pleasure as the bard’s cock slid deliciously over his prostate with every firm thrust into him. Jaskier’s pace was hard but steady, and his hands fluttered over Geralt’s back and sides like he was trying to memorize the feel of the Witcher underneath him like this.

“Perfect, Geralt, love you, _fuck_ ,” Jaskier breathed raggedly, lips sliding messily over his shoulder as his hand slid around Geralt’s hip to grab at the base of his cock. Geralt groaned as he started a firm, even rhythm, tugging at him with just the right pressure and a perfect flick of his wrist on the upstroke. Jaskier milked him through the orgasm that hit him like a tidal wave and filled him after a few stuttered thrusts, and Geralt hummed with pleasure at the feeling of his spend, thick and hot inside of him. 

The bard collapsed on top of the Witcher, cock still sheathed, and Geralt rolled them carefully so that he was on his side with Jaskier pressed up against him. The bard’s softened cock slid out of him and his hole twitched at the emptiness. Seed began to trickle down his thighs and he shifted, uncomfortable. Jaskier smirked and reached down between his legs, dragging his first two fingers through the dripping come and pushing it back into his hole. Geralt hissed quietly, sensitive, but let his legs spread.

“Turn over, darling,” Jaskier murmured from behind him, “and let me clean you up.”

Geralt, feeling unusually malleable, did as he was bid, lying flat on his stomach with his head on his folded hands. He felt the bed dip as Jaskier shifted and suddenly the bard was between his thighs again, spreading his cheeks open to lick carefully between them. Geralt’s noises were higher pitched than normal as Jaskier feasted on him, and his cock swelled almost as an afterthought. The bard sensed the urgency in Geralt’s pushes back and slid two thin fingers inside of him, curling them to press perfectly up against the swollen, still-sensitive bump of the Witcher’s prostate. 

“Jaskier,” he groaned, voice rough as more shocked sounds were pulled out of him. He wasn’t particularly vocal in bed, but something about the submissive position and the languid way the bard played with him made him feel especially wanton. Geralt came again with a soft, choked gasp as he rutted into the rough bedding trapped underneath his swollen cock. He spurted and Jaskier worked him through the feeling, hushing him gently and pulling his fingers out after the Witcher went lax. 

“Satisfied, wolf?” the bard teased and Geralt hummed lazily in response, turning onto his side to watch the bard clean himself up with half-lidded golden eyes. Once Jaskier was wiped down and had donned one of Geralt’s worn older shirts, he approached with the damp rag and cleaned the Witcher up, his touch almost reverent as he wiped the cloth gently between Geralt’s thighs. 

“Come to bed, songbird,” Geralt murmured as the bard discarded the washrag into the small hamper in the corner of the room. He opened his arms invitingly, and Jaskier crawled right in, settling comfortably against his chest. 

They lay together in silence for a while, but Jaskier was still awake and he could never be silent for very long. 

“Um, thank you,” he said quietly into the darkness. 

“For what?” Geralt asked, bemused.

“For letting me make love to you,” the bard said earnestly, though warmth suffused his cheeks. Geralt could smell his pleasure and nerves in the air, and he smiled. 

“Thank you for wanting to,” he answered carefully. Jaskier beamed at him and pressed their mouths together.

“Good night, Geralt,” he murmured.

“Good night, little bird.”

* * *

Jaskier walked along the beach, his toes digging into the sand as the waves lapped up to his ankles before receding again. The sky was dark. Black clouds hovered ominously and Jaskier winced at the flash of lightning and crack of thunder that shook the trees he could see in the distance. He didn’t recognize this place, but it didn’t feel like somewhere he was supposed to be, and so he started to run. The sand began to cling to his legs, climbing up his body until it felt like he was covered in concrete, but still he pushed on until he fell to his knees in the wet sand. His hands hit the ground in front of him, and he panicked as the sand began to wind up his arms. Shoving himself back to his feet, Jaskier whirled as a soft whisper came to his ear, carried on the howling wind. He fell again.

“ _Nerites_ ,” it crooned, low and rough. “ _It’s time to come home, son._ ”

The bard couldn’t see anyone with the darkness and the saltwater in his eyes but somehow, the night got even darker, and he looked up into the face of a warrior. Stumbling to his feet for a second time, Jaskier wiped his filthy hands on his breeches.

“Hello, Nerites,” the man said, voice booming. Jaskier jumped at the volume.

“Nereus,” he recognized, eyes widening as he took a step back. He stumbled in the clumping sand, but kept upright. “What am I doing here? What is this place? I can’t come home.” 

“I will come for you, Nerites,” the man promised, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Fear not. You are still my son.”

The waves rose suddenly and Jaskier was underwater. He gasped, taking in great lungfuls of sea, but he was still able to breathe as his eyes blinked open. He spotted his sister, Amphitrite, and swam towards her. As he approached, she took notice and smiled, glowing in the dark of the waters. 

“Nerites,” she murmured as she embraced him. “It’s almost time to come home.”

“No,” Jaskier told her, shaking his head as he tried to pull back from her embrace. “I live on land, Amphitrite. Remember?”

“Shh,” she said. “It’s almost time.” Her grip around him tightened, and she began to pull him down towards the bottom of the ocean. He struggled, kicking out reflexively and panicking when the next breath filled his lungs with water and he began to choke. Jaskier had been able to breathe under the water since he’d taken Emmaline’s potion, and as he lost consciousness, the only thought in his head was that he didn’t _want_ to go home. 

* * *

Geralt’s eyes snapped open when he got a sharp elbow to his ribs, and his fingers were wrapped tight around Jaskier’s wrist before his eyes were fully focused on his surroundings. The bard was gasping in his sleep, almost like he was choking, and Geralt immediately began shoving at his shoulder to wake him up. The smaller man jerked upright with a shout and immediately began to weep. Baffled, Geralt opened his arms and the bard burrowed into them, pressing his face firmly into Geralt’s throat as he cried. His tears made tacky trails down the Witcher's bare neck that stuck them together, but Jaskier seemed unconcerned. 

“I don’t want to go home,” Jaskier managed eventually once he’d cried himself out. His voice was hoarse and he coughed, clearing his throat. His face remained hidden in Geralt’s shoulder. 

“What are you talking about?” the Witcher asked, bewildered. “Do you want to talk about the nightmare?”

“That _was_ the nightmare,” Jaskier explained, finally pulling away to look at Geralt. He seemed tired and small, and the sour note of his fear was still permeating the room. Geralt’s nose wrinkled. 

“It’s stupid, I know,” the bard continued, waving a hand. “I can’t help it, though. What if he does want to make me go back?”

“You can’t go back,” Geralt reminded him patiently.

“I have a bad feeling, that’s all.”

“You and your feelings. Go to sleep, bard. Maybe Nereus will come to us, maybe he won’t, but you aren’t going to leave my side. It would take more than an ancient god to keep us apart,” Geralt promised. Even with his word, it took a long while for the bard to fall back asleep. His lashes fluttered and he moved restlessly, but Geralt kept watch over him during the night. _I don’t care what power you have_ , he warned the faceless entity that threatened them, _you won’t take this from me._

* * *

Jaskier forced Geralt out into the salty spray of the ocean early the next morning. The bard spent most of the morning splashing about and singing. Geralt watched from the shore until the sun rose high and unforgiving, and then he stripped down as well and joined the bard in the sea. Jaskier moved gracefully in the water, his lithe body at ease as he swam leisurely. Geralt treaded water as he watched the bard move, eyes intent until he spotted his opening and pounced. The Witcher threw his weight on top of the bard, and Jaskier’s laugh was lost as they sank underwater.

They emerged sputtering and laughing, and Geralt’s heart ached at how much he loved this strange person - human or not, he’d never met another sentient being quite like Julian Alfred Pankratz. Jaskier continued to swim, floating on his back with his limbs akimbo while Geralt got out of the water to go hunt for their dinner. He wasn’t in the mood for fish, so he took to the sparse woodlands near the borrowed cottage to hunt squirrels until he had enough to skin and roast for supper. Despite his lithe frame, Jaskier had a voracious appetite, and Geralt’s mutations meant that his metabolism ran extremely fast. Between the two of them, they could typically put away a deer in a day or two. 

Geralt stalked quietly through the little forest, silent as he strained his ears for any skittering in the underbrush. There was nothing, which was curious. His medallion hummed faintly, but that wasn’t unusual in the less crowded areas of the Continent, and Geralt only killed monsters that hurt others. He took no issue with the vegetarian vampires he’d come across, or the sirens who worked as whores in brothels where lust was just a deep inhale away. Despite his talk when the bard and he first met, the Witcher had a set of ethics that he lived by to do his job and have a clean conscience. It didn’t always work, but he found it had helped more than it hadn’t in the years he’d adopted it.

As he walked, he let his senses go, let his mind quiet, and followed his nose. The trees rustled with the faint winds blowing from the coast, and Geralt followed the smell of iron and salt to a wounded vodnik, laying very still in a small, murky puddle. He frowned, perplexed. Vodnici were supremely intelligent, and while not human, they were hardly any more monstrous. Their appearance was unpleasant - their protruding gills and green-hued skin were bizarre - but they had civil if tense relations with humans for the most part. The sight of one wounded and so far from the sea made him tense, and he reached for the dagger in his boot, holding it steady while he slowly approached.

The creature was unconscious, and he carefully reached out to check for where he thought the pulse might be. They were humanoid in shape, and though they were clearly not human, he figured the mechanics would be similar. He couldn’t feel anything, but as he rolled the vodnik over, he saw the unsteady and shallow movement of its chest. At least it was alive, but now he considered what to do with it. The thought of taking the creature back to Jaskier was distasteful, but he considered the webbing between its digits and the splotches of green and black scales on its body and sighed heavily. He couldn’t leave it here to die what would surely be a slow and painful death, so he gave up on the hunting and bent to scoop the wounded vodnik up by the knees and back. 

The creature didn’t stir, and Geralt was almost to the shore when Jaskier spotted him and came inland. 

“What the hell is that? What happened to it?” the bard demanded, yanking on his breeches and tying them hurriedly before his fluttering hands reached out to help. The scales on his sides and throat were distracting. Geralt grunted and nodded towards the cottage before turning to head towards it.

Jaskier followed him, wringing his hands and fretting under his breath until they were inside. The bard immediately moved to the trunk by the foot of the bed to retrieve a few of the blankets inside, and he shook them out and layered them into a semi-suitable place to settle the injured vodnik. Geralt set it down in the small nest and Jaskier stayed with it while the Witcher went to their packs. He found a jar of thick healing salve and returned to the vodnik, dropping down to his knees to inspect the wounds. They were jagged and clearly from some type of thin dagger wielded by someone with little practice. Jaskier had wet a cloth and was gently dabbing at the wounds to clean the dirt and grime away. Once he’d finished, Geralt took a dollop of salve onto two fingers and methodically began to treat the wound. Jaskier watched him for a moment, biting his lip.

“How long will it take it to heal?” he asked, nodding towards the creature.

“Him,” Geralt corrected absent-mindedly as he worked.

“What?”

“Vodnici are male water spirits,” the Witcher explained, screwing the lid back onto the salve and returning it to his pack. 

“Okay. How long will _he_ take to heal?”

“I don’t know. This is a general healing salve. A bit too strong for humans, I’d say, but I don’t have special vodnici healing medicine.”

The bard thought for a moment.

“Can I try something? Amphitrite was showing me…” he trailed off, blushing. “Well, maybe I can help?”

Geralt raised a brow but shrugged. “You can try.”

Jaskier pushed the Witcher out of his way and laid one small hand to the deep wounds on the vodnik’s chest. Quietly, Jaskier began to hum, the tone haunting but oddly soothing. Nothing happened at first, and Jaskier’s brow furrowed, his hand pressing more insistently. The vodnik let out a whimper of unconscious pain at the pressure, but Jaskier was firm, and soon the Witcher could see the magic seeping into his skin and sewing it back together. He stared in disbelief when Jaskier was done, the vodnik’s skin clear and his big eyes slowly beginning to blink open.

Jaskier smiled shyly. “I know you heal quickly, but I don’t like when you’re in pain. Amphitrite said I couldn’t access all my magic, but she also said that Emmaline’s potion might’ve unlocked some of it because of the, um, scales and stuff… And so I asked her to show me some stuff to help. Little things - healing and pain relief, mostly.”

Geralt barked out a laugh, staring at Jaskier with something like wonder. “You made your ancient sea goddess sister teach you healing magic for me?”

“Well, sorta.” Jaskier shrugged. “I know you heal fast, but I’d like to help if I can.”

The vodnik cleared his throat, and both Geralt and Jaskier whirled to stare at him. The vodnik was staring back at the bard with huge eyes, and one of his hands reached out carefully, thin and trembling. Jaskier didn’t say anything to stop him, and soon the vodnik’s fingertips were pressed to his chest, feeling his heart beating through his skin.

“You saved me,” the creature said. “Son of Nereus, our protector. You _are_ returned.” 

“What happened to you?” Jaskier asked softly, eyes wide and concerned. Geralt nodded encouragingly when the vodnik glanced at him uneasily.

“We don’t hurt humans,” he said, his eyes darting between the pair. “I was looking for berries and I was attacked.”

“By who?” Geralt pressed.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think it could be the cult?” the Witcher insisted, golden eyes flashing dangerously. “Tell me.”

The vodnik sighed. “They were talking about Nerites returning. And it seems he has.” He looked meaningfully at Jaskier and Geralt. “The practitioners that worship us and the sea are mostly harmless. But there are those who could be considered,” he hesitated, “extreme.”

“Extreme how?”

“They rail against Poseidon and call him the usurper,” the vodnik explained, shrugging his thin shoulders. “They say he stole the sea from Nereus.”

“And what do you say?” Jaskier asked, voice quiet but serious. His blue sea-glass eyes were unblinking.

“I don’t much care who rules the sea,” the creature answered, shrugging. 

“Poseidon banished me,” Jaskier said indignantly. 

“Your father agreed,” the vodnik replied evenly, “to spare his own life. Seems to me the sea gods haven’t been kind to you, Nerites.”

“Why would the believers attack a vodnik if they worship them?” Geralt questioned, raising a brow.

“They were trying to summon Nereus. The blood of a sea creature is said to help, and not all know that vodniks are close to the gods. It’s rubbish, of course.”

“Do you know how you _can_ summon Nereus?” the bard demanded suddenly, fiddling with the thin gold ring on his left hand.

The vodnik laughed, a sound like bubbles popping, before he coughed and shook his head.

“You don’t summon Nereus. He comes to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I went with the Czech/Slovak vodnik, rather than the Russian vodyanoy. I did this because it fit more with the descriptions from the Witcher wiki and excerpts that I found of what the lore refers to as the vodyanoy, and so while they are called vodyanoy in the lore of the Witcher, they align more closely (from my very basic understanding) with the vodnik. Thanks for coming to my TEDTalk, and please stay tuned!


End file.
